


against the dying of the light

by murakamism



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Ben-centric, F/M, Heavy Angst, Post-Bendemption, Suicidal Ideation, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-11-07
Packaged: 2019-08-20 06:05:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16550354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakamism/pseuds/murakamism
Summary: There is no penance for sin like this.





	against the dying of the light

**Author's Note:**

> This is a very personal fic. It was catharsis for me too. I've always heavily empathized with Ben (both in canon and in fics), and this was a side of him that I wanted to explore. Nobody hates Ben Solo more than he hates himself.
> 
> While this fic does have a happy ending, it was originally meant to be much more tragic. I hope that the lighter ending works too, and that it matches our hopes for EP IX. Please heed the warnings in the tags above.

The sky is burning.

Ben exhales short puffs of breath, each one emerging white as ice. He’s hunched over because each step is agony—even as he grips his injured arm, the red hot pain of it flares all throughout his body. His feet drag across the snow, leaving heavy trails behind him.

The embers from the fallen ship continue to fall like snowflakes in the desolate sky. His teeth are chattering, and his limbs are heavy, and all he wants to do is collapse in bed for a week.

But there is a small town just up ahead. Whatever few natives on this planet have been spared from the battle and ensuing crash.

All around him is nothing but the cold. A bitter wind chills him to the bone, wrapping him in its pitiless embrace. He could give in now, could meet it halfway—give into his desperation, into the tiredness that settles into him, that’s burrowed its way into his ribcage and settled heavily inside his chest.

It’s only that he supposes there are better ways to die.

Ben drags one foot in front of the other.

The Supreme Leader is dead, now.

 

 

At first his head had been frighteningly empty after Snoke.

But now he finds that it’s filled with a different sort of white noise, a different sort of darkness. It’s much more difficult, Ben realizes, when all the sharp barbs bouncing around the walls of his brain are his own. When he can’t shut himself up, when the echoes of Snoke continue to wrap around him so tightly that he can no longer tell which one is in his voice and which one isn’t.

It makes no difference, he supposes. A void is a void. The Dark Side remains wide open and empty, yearning to be filled.

Just like the black hole in his chest cavity.

Sometimes he looks at his hands and sees red. Some stains can never be washed off, can never be forgiven, can never be forgotten.

There is no penance for sin like this.

When he looks at his hands, he sees red. When he closes his eyes at night, there is fire.

So he doesn’t look.

 

 

With what few credits he can scavenge ( _scavenge, no, he needs another word),_ he manages to hop from backwater planet to backwater planet until he finds that he’s burning through the money too quickly. After smuggling himself into a fifth-class cargo freighter, he tumbles out of the first pit stop. The pilots are negotiating a deal with some shady-faced locals, so they don’t notice when Ben strides out of the hold—as straggly as he is.

A kilometer away from the landing site, he finds a village. And on the far end of it is a construction site. They’ve only begun building what will become the planet’s first intergalactic-grade space port, but all that’s been set up is the bare durasteel skeleton. Dust dances around the air, stinging his nose and eyes, and for once Ben misses his old mask. All sorts of creatures work around the site, most of them large and strong; useful.

Ben’s always been big and strong for a human male. The foreman asks no further questions.

So he gets to work.

The labor is long and back-breaking. He rises before daybreak, works until sundown, and then collapses into a too-small cot that had been provided for him onsite. He shares a tent with about a dozen other lifeforms; the giant Gamorrean that lies next to his cot always snores in his sleep. The Rodian on his other side always shifts, his bed creaking loudly.

The nights are never truly quiet. Instead, they’re filled with the din of background noise: snores, sleeptalking, sleep-gurgling, creaking cots, the hint of wind from outside. Ben lies still more often than not, lying straight on his back, hands clasped on his stomach, his eyes wide open.

The roof of the tent flaps with the wind. He counts each ripple, times them until he can hum the song of its drumbeat. The tent is dark, too dark to really make out the poles and stitches, but his eyes have acclimatized. Besides, this planet has two moons, and each one shines brightly down at the rest of them—almost like two eyes watching the lifeforms below.

During the day he finds that there’s no time to think. For hours on end he moves on instinct. All that matters is his body, the physicality of it all. Grasp, lift, carry, dig. The weight of stones, Ben finds, is quite _grounding_. All that he can focus on is what is in front of him. All that he can sense is the way his muscles strain, the sweat that drips down his brows, and the weight of the cargo on his shoulders.

It’s exceedingly simple.

But there are no distractions during the night. There’s no weight to carry—no physical ones, at least. He tries not to look at his body, tries not to look at his hands, tries not to remember anything. But that’s easier said than done, and no matter how tired he is from the day’s work, he finds that his body continues to resist slumber.

Instead, he lies awake in the dark, counting down the minutes until sunrise.

In the dark, there is too much time, and all he can do is think.

 _Let the past die,_ he had once said. _Kill it if you have to._

If only he could. If only he could have killed it all.

But whenever he closes his eyes he can see the images. They’ve been burned into the back of his eyelids. There, in the red light of Starkiller, is the face of his father. An older face, weak and wrinkled, so different from the one he had known. There, in the blackness, is Snoke: snarling, snapping, lashing out with jolts that hurt and words that hurt even harder.

(And of course, sometimes when he isn’t particularly thinking too hard about anything, the image of _her_ rises up like white smoke. He’s drawn to her like moth to a flame. Thinking of her is as natural as breathing. _Rey, Rey, Rey,_ with her soft hands and gentle smile, with tears in her eyes as he had asked—)

There, in the darkness, are things that are better off dead.

 

 

The sky shifts from blue to gray to white as ice. The wind is replaced by rain, by chill, by dry air. Months pass, steadily on, cycle to cycle. Every day, the planet is in a different spot around its sun. The moons take baby steps in their nightly dance. And every day, Ben Solo builds and builds and builds.

The space port is a five year project, the foreman says. But whether it’s been a year already or not Ben cannot tell. His skin has grown red and ruddy from the exposure. His jaw is covered by the dark hairs of a thick beard. The scar bisecting his face has grown white, blindingly white, and it’s only half-visible now. It’s the only old part of him, he thinks, that remains.

What has become of the galaxy in the wake of the Supreme Leader’s death? In the wake of General Hux’s murder?

He doesn’t know, and he doesn’t specifically seek out any answers.

During break-time his tentmates all gather together around a single radio. It emits all sorts of noise, and the lifeforms alternate between guffawing laughter and loud groans. There’s banter too. Banter to the rhythm of lively music, to the staccato of a radio show host’s voice, to the grim flatness of the galactic news broadcaster. Ben, who already hovers far away from the rest of them, hovers even farther.

That’s all right. They’ve stopped asking him about himself a long, long time ago. Stopped asking him to join them.

A lot of the work would be much easier if he manipulated the Force. But instead Ben uses the raw strength of his body, hyperaware of how gravity works against him. He doesn’t reach out, doesn’t even dare to _gaze_ farther than the planet’s horizon.

(He only looks inward, even when he finds nothing)

And if he sometimes feels a tiny pit of despair—oh, that’s an old, old feeling—that is familiar but not entirely his, he shuts it out tight. Shuts it out until the sigh becomes muffled through the Force. Until he can convince himself that it’s a mere illusion, a hallucination like the ones planted by Snoke.

Or maybe a hallucination planted by his own brain. He thinks he’s been having more and more of those lately.

Sometimes Ben has dreams. Day dreams, nightmares, they’re all the same. Sometimes he dreams that he’s dragging a heavy boulder across the site, only to find that it weighs heavier and heavier. And when he looks down, he finds that he’s stepped into quicksand. His feet disappear into grains of sand as he sinks down, down, down.

No matter how hard he struggles, he can’t get out.

Eventually, his body is submerged. He looks up, desperate for a breath of fresh air. But all that remains in his vision is a tiny patch of blue sky. Soon enough, blue turns to black, and the only thought in his head is _guess I don’t have to report to work tomorrow._

When he wakes, his heart is pounding. Sweat glistens on his skin. But instead of panic, he feels an aching sort of relief.

He watches the sun rise and set. He wipes the sweat off his brow. The planet turns.

There is no _point,_ Ben realizes. There is no point.

He already died a long time ago. He had fallen with his ship. He had fallen with Han. He had lost himself when he lost Rey.

This is just overstaying.

 

 

A Weequay and a Wookie get into a fight over owed credits and drinks. The entire bar watches as the Wookie pulls the Weequay’s arm out of its socket, as the furry lifeform roars out a battle cry, waving the dismembered arm above his head.

The Weequay gurgles out a few more curses before his neck is twisted in one final crunch.

His body is dumped out the next morning.

 

The Rodian in the cot next to Ben’s has an affair with one of the local girls. She leaves him for a pirate, so he shoots himself in the head with a blaster.

 

A freak accident with the ancient cutting wheel traps two Ughnaughts in its path. They squeal and grunt, high-pitched and keen, almost like gutted pigs. A Twi’lek slave rushes forward, her lettu swinging behind her. As she tugs on an Ugnaught’s arm, her face frozen in fear, the cutting wheel speeds even faster, and she’s dragged along with the rest of them. She doesn’t even have time to scream.

Ben finally looks away.

They clean up the mess next morning. The cutting wheel is disassembled because viscera had jammed its spokes, and progress with the construction is set back by two weeks.

 _Not enough time,_ their foreman tsks. _Time, time, time._

 _Death_ , Ben sees. _Death, death, death._

 

 

He thinks of two dozen ways to die by next sunrise. Ben’s still laying on his back in his cot by the time the darkness outside is replaced by the rays of first light. The site begins to come alive with background noise, and he doesn’t move, only stares up at the tent ceiling with dark eyes.

There are two dozen and one ways to die. But they’re all too easy.

If only, Ben thinks. If only he hadn’t lost his lightsaber.

But he is no Jedi now; neither is he Sith. He is no master, no Supreme Leader, no knight.

He is nothing. He is no one.

(He was never strong enough. He couldn’t change the galaxy. He couldn’t save anyone. He couldn’t even save himself)

He’s just Ben.

 

 

_“...former general of the First Order, has now commandeered Cloud City. The mines, according to the General, need to be reconfigured for peak productivity. A mass migration of lifeforms were harvesting—“_

The radio crackles with static. Ben’s tentmates are engaged in dull conversation behind him. Even so, his ears are ringing, and his entire body freezes at the proclamation.

_“...Damage done by rebels... Lifeforms had escaped, and in the meantime, droids have been manning the stations...”_

He swallows.

_“...orchestrated by Princess Leia Organa-Solo, a dangerous wanted criminal. If you have any information on...”_

Ben makes up his mind.

 

 

Getting off this dustbin of a planet is shockingly easy. His skills with the Force are mildly rusty, but the pilots idling by the bar don’t even notice as he flies off with their ship. It’s a tiny thing, an old cargo freighter, but the controls are instinctive. Ben blasts off into the atmosphere and doesn’t bother looking down.

He passes the planet’s two moons. They orbit each other, large and white and lifeless, and he spares each of them a glance as he leaves. A silent goodbye.

He will not be missed.

He’d forgotten the majesty of space. He’d forgotten this: the darkness spreading eternally over the nonexistent horizon, spilling out to all reaches of the galaxy, interspersed with twinkling stars and bright planets. The only thing that accompanies his ears is the noise of the engine humming, the few beeps as he reconfigures the coordinates of his next jump.

Where to?

To the gas giant, Bespin? But the only thing that will greet him there is a smoke trail. They’re long gone. What about to some secret base? But where? Where?

Up ahead of him is already another planet. Ben jerks the controls to the side, narrowly avoiding its gravitational pull.

(Or he could have let it, could have released the controls and let the Force decide his fate. It would be so easy to just crash and burn, or maybe to burn all his fuel until he’d float endlessly through space, cold and forgotten, all junk on a junk ship)

Where does he want to go?

_Anywhere but here._

What will greet him when he gets there?

_Nothing, nothing._

What does he want?

_I don’t know._

He sits in the pilot seat, eyes focused on the viewport in front of him. Space stretches out before him.

_What is there left to want?_

Many, many things. He whispers them to himself, even when they dig claws into his chest.

Ben knows he isn’t getting any of them. He leaps anyway.

 

 

On the nearest fueling station, he finds a lead to the resistance. So he follows it, follows each clue like a treasure hunt. He builds up on stories, on rumors, on the tail end of explosions and attacks on military bases. The First Order may be dead, but its roots have dug deep, and many petty officials have fled all over the galaxy.

Some of them are trying to grow again.

 

 _Peace is a lie. There is only Passion._  
_Through Passion I gain Strength._  
 _Through Strength I gain Power._  
 _Through Power I gain Victory._  
 _Through Victory my chains are Broken._  
 _The Force shall free me._

Except that victory had come at a terrible price, and the chains he had broken free of were replaced by a larger, even more gilded cage.

_The Force shall free me._

He wishes the Force could free him, even though all his life it had brought him nothing but pain.

 

 

He dreams of Rey in the forest.

Snow falls in light specks all around them. Rey’s face is coated in blue light—the reflection of her saber. Ben stands several feet away, his own saber ignited in his hands. He’s in a battle stance, legs wide open, ready to attack.

Even from this distance, he can see her eyes clearly. Rey stares at him, her body mirroring his.

“Ben,” she says.

“I killed Ben Solo,” he replies. The words are garbled, as if he’s speaking underwater. Her mouth doesn’t move, and neither does his. And yet the words ring out through the woods between them.

“You killed Kylo Ren too,” she replies simply. Despite her aggressive stance, her voice is flat. Matter of fact. She doesn’t move towards him.

Ben is silent.

When Rey looks at him, he sees himself reflected in her eyes.

“They’re both dead to me,” he murmurs. “They should have died a long time ago.”

_They don’t deserve to live._

Rey’s mouth falls, and something heavy hits his chest. She doesn’t need such sad eyes.

“They’re not dead yet,” she replies, her voice trembling. She drops her saber, and it shuts off with a click. Rey swallows. “I can feel them. They’re still alive.”

Ben shakes his head.

She raises a hand, palm up in his direction.

“They’re still alive,” she repeats. “I can feel them. Come home to me, Ben. Come home to me.”

He shakes his head. His saber remains ignited in his hands. He can feel the warmth of it on his face.

“You won’t hurt me,” she says. “You’re only hurting yourself.”

“You rejected me,” he replies. “You didn’t want me. I could never—“

Rey’s eyes are wide, her pupils wide blown. The red of his saber is harsh against the pale skin of her face, against her lips. She must be cold, Ben thinks. She must be cold here, with only those thin desert wraps to protect her limbs.

“You don’t need me,” he finishes.

Rey smiles, her lips tinted with snowflakes. Even so, her eyes are unbearably sad.

“Do we need _anyone?”_ she asks.

“Can you ever forgive me?” Ben asks then. “For all I’ve done?”

She’s still looking at him, still smiling. She doesn’t speak. She doesn’t respond. The snow falls all around them.

Ben wakes with a jolt. When he gets up, he swallows, finding that his throat is dry. There’s a crick in his neck. When he groans, he turns around and realizes he’s fallen asleep in the pilot seat, and the same pattern of stars in space continues to be displayed in front of him.

 

 

_How can you come home if home is a place that no longer exists?_

Ben activates the controls.

_How can you come home if you’ve already burned it to the ground?_

He inputs the coordinates.

_Can you still come home even if the key no longer fits?_

The ship shudders and blasts off at lightspeed.

 

 

A lifetime ago, when he was very, very young, he had found a small Kiros bird lying in the grass. It was tiny, clearly the runt of the litter. Its wing was broken, and it stared up at Ben with beady eyes as half of its body bled red. Perhaps it had been attacked by a pack of Loth cats in the perimeter, or maybe by another creature. Ben couldn’t tell.

He had brought it to Threepio first. But even as Threepio called over their domestic med droid, he had been informed that the creature couldn’t have been saved. The entire time, the Kiros hadn’t even said a peep. It only stared quietly with round eyes, allowing itself to be carried in a dark-haired child’s arms.

The Kiros was trembling, but it wasn’t out of fear. It was cold, even in the height of summer.

That evening was one of the rare ones that his father had been home. Upon seeing the Kiros in its shoebox, Han had winced sympathetically.

“I’m sorry, kid. That’s too much even for Wanbee. We can’t save him.”

But Ben had held it tightly, refusing to let go. Han had stroked his hair and leaned down until they were eye to eye, and all that Ben could see were the warm eyes of his father.

“Sometimes, it’s kinder to let it go.”

In the end, they buried it. Ben couldn’t stop crying, so Han held him as tight as he could.

The next morning Han was gone, taking the Falcon with him. He wouldn’t return for a long time.

 

 

He finds her with the Force.

As usual, she’s a shining beacon of light, of overwhelming power. How can everything else not be drawn towards her, he wonders? How can the rest of the galaxy not realize the magnitude of her strength?

Rey’s Force signature radiates warmth. This isn’t the stifling heat of Jakku. This is a hearth fire, a ship’s old radiator, a cool night spent pressed against another body. Here it is, Ben thinks as he reaches out. Here is all that is familiar, here is all that is home.

The memory of her dream face flits by him. Ben shuts his eyes tight, willing away the image. There’s still one thing he hasn’t done.

_There is no penance for sin like this._

_There is no death, there is the Force._

For the first time in many, many years, Ben Solo opens himself up to the Light—

He drowns in its scorching intensity and loses himself there.

 

 

The rest of it is a blur. He remembers a battlefield, remembers the mess of it all: Stormtroopers and rebels alike rushing together with ferocity. A former First Order general has barricaded himself in a communications tower, threatening to blow up the rest of the planet. It must be an empty threat, surely, but the detonator is still in his hands.

Ben only belatedly realizes that he has no weapons. He shoves enemies aside with the Force. Rebels look upon him with surprise upon realizing that he’s on their side, even if they don’t recognize him. But nothing registers, because all that Ben desperately wants is—

“Rey.”

To see her one last time.

Rey’s eyes grow wide when she spots him. There she is in the middle of the battlefield, bright and luminous, her lightsaber swinging in a wide arc. Droids are sliced to pieces in front of her. Ben finds that his chest is heavy, that his throat is blocked, that he suddenly cannot breathe.

Even across the room, he can see her eyes.

“Ben,” she murmurs. Time stops between them. “You’re...”

Blasterfire interrupts her speech. Ben spins around to find the general staring at him with slack-jawed disbelief, a sizzling blaster in his hand. The older man takes several steps backwards.

Ben throws the blaster from the man’s hand with the Force. When deprived of his weapon, he grips the detonator even tighter.

“You,” the man spits. Ben faces him fully.

“Me,” he replies, voice deep. It’s grown hoarse from disuse.

This old general—once illustrious and highly successful—now stares at him with wide eyes, balding hair, and rips all over his ridiculous suit. Surely, this fashion is outdated by now. What is he but an old man?

Before Ben can step any closer, the general hits the detonator. Explosions sound out all around them, deafening their ears. The ground shakes, and the top of the communications tower trembles as its foundations grow weak.

Ben grits his teeth. The explosions have caused a domino effect; towers all over the city begin to fall one by one, colliding with each other and forcing up clouds of dust and smoke. As underlings fall off the platform, Rey keeps busy by knocking out the rest of them. She’s engaged in battle with a particularly large one, and doesn’t even notice how the general had picked up his blaster once more. He heads towards the elevator shaft but then throws a final glance at all of them.

Ben doesn’t have time to yell.

The tower right next to them crumbles. At the exact same moment, the general fires a blaster shot in Rey’s direction. As she moves to deflect it, she steps into the path of incoming debris. Ben rushes forward, knocking underlings aside, as he leaps and heads towards her.

Rey’s eyes are wide when she finally sees him.

Their bodies collide painfully. Ben wraps his arms around her, buries her head into his chest as he feels the debris falling onto the platform. Pain shoots all around him, over his arms, all over his back, the back of his head.

Whether or not Rey is screaming, he can’t tell. The wind is howling in his ears.

His lungs are ragged. Something wet and sticky spreads through the length of his torso, sticking to his clothes. When he breathes, pain shoots up his spine.

But Rey is small and soft and warm in his arms. He thinks she’s chanting his name.

“Ben,” she murmurs. “Oh, Kriff, Ben, Ben...”

Her voice is wet. Dark spots dance around his vision. When Ben looks up, all he sees is a small patch of blue sky.

And then blackness. And then nothing.

 

 

Nights as Supreme Leader were the loneliest he’d ever had.

Somehow, his bed felt bigger, emptier, even if it was the same. Somehow, the usual droning white noise of the ship’s engines had felt hollower. Somehow, staring out of his viewport and into the vastness of space had lost all its wonder. This was no map to conquer, no guide to discover. It was just a reminder—

He exited his room, walked down the narrow polished corridors, and headed towards the deck. His footsteps were heavy, but they were the only noise. He was the only presence at this time of the evening.

As he settled into the deck, he felt the Force ripple through the air. Instead of turning to face _her,_ he only continued to stand still, eyes focused on outer space. Still, her reflection was cast upon the glass, and he couldn’t ignore _that._

She was frowning. Her hair was messed up and sheets were tangled between her legs. Even if she was in bed, she clearly hadn’t slept; dark circles hovered beneath her eyes.

The two of them were silent, neither one acknowledging the other. Only their breaths were audible, and to his surprise, his matched hers to the same beat.

Eventually, she rolled over to face him. He finally turned his head to meet her gaze. Rey stared at him long and hard, her mouth set in a thin line. After a few seconds, she looked forward, focusing her gaze on the viewport in front of both of them. Light danced in her eyes.

“Cassiopeia,” he murmured. “The most beautiful constellation in our part of the galaxy.”

 _Our galaxy_ now. _Ours,_ all that we had conquered.

Rey was silent for a while. When she finally spoke, her voice was heavy with sleep.

“Is it worth it?” she had asked him quietly. “Is it worth losing everything to gain all this?”

He didn’t reply. The Force fizzled between them and Rey’s figure disappeared, slowly and then all at once, as if she hadn’t existed at all.

Even after she left, he’d stood there alone for a long time.

 

 

He wakes with a jolt.

When he looks around, he realizes that he’s in a medbay. A curtain covers his bed on all sides, allowing him privacy. When he tries to move, he finds that he can’t; his arms are heavy at his sides, and his legs are covered by a thick blanket. His torso is constricted by bandages, and he winces as he tries to move.

There’s another weight at the side of his bed. When he shifts, a dark head of hair pops up into his field of vision. Small hands press down on his chest, willing him to lie back down. When Ben turns his head, he’s greeted by Rey’s face.

Dark circles lie beneath her eyes. Her skin is pale. Her hair is a mess. He swallows, tries to lift a hand to press against her face. When he reaches out towards her, he realizes his fingers are trembling.

Rey catches his hand. She slowly presses it to her cheek, still not breaking away from his gaze. Her lips are soft against the base of his palm.

Ben opens his mouth to speak but can only croak.

Rey’s eyes begin to water. She sniffs and then leans forward, brushing away the hair from his face. He can only stare at her with wide eyes, can only lie there as Rey hovers above him.

“Am I dead?” he manages to murmur.

Rey snorts. She shakes her head, her fingers still massaging his temple.

“No, you laserbrain. You’re not dead.” She’s smiling so hard that her cheeks must hurt with the effort. “You’re not dead. I knew you weren’t dead.”

He swallows.

“Where have you been, Ben?” she asks, her voice breaking. Ben can only stare at her with parted lips. He doesn’t know how else to reply, how else to mold the wetness in his throat into something more tangible.

“I...”

“I thought you were dead,” she whispers. “I couldn’t feel you through the Force. The news was all over the holonet—that your ship crashed, that Hux was dead. I didn’t know what to think...”

“You still cared about me?” he asks. “Knowing that I failed you?”

Rey pauses. She looks at him, her eyes still wet with the threat of tears. Ben hates that on her, hates that he caused it. When he tries to wipe them away, Rey lies still, her cheek warm against the roughness of his palm.

“I tried not to care,” Rey admits quietly. “But I did.”

They’re both silent. The curtains rustle all around them. If Ben listens carefully, he can hear soft sounds: distant footsteps, beeping droids, rustling bedsheets, life.

Somehow, he’s been given a second chance. He doesn’t understand it, doesn’t understand how he can come close to deserving any of this.

“Can you ever forgive me?” he asks her. “For all I’ve done?”

Rey looks at him then. Her mouth falls into a serious line, and for a moment he holds his breath, too sure of how this will end up.

Her words surprise him.

“I think I’ve already forgiven you,” she says.

“How can you? You shouldn’t—”

“You just can’t forgive yourself.”

He shuts his mouth.

Rey is looking at him again with those serious eyes. When she smiles, her lips are thin, almost pained. Ben swallows heavily.

She stands, finally dropping his hand.

As soon as he loses her warmth, he fully realizes the extent of his situation. The rest of the galaxy unfolds in front of him. What is he now, the triple traitor that he’s become? He had come here to die, to know that if there was one last act inside of him, it should have been to save her, to be with her—

 _What is beyond that,_ Ben wonders. _What comes after?_

_What does he want?_

A new voice filters into the room. Ben’s eyes widen as he recognizes the woman’s voice: old but strong, far from frail. She converses with a med droid, and as Rey meets his eyes, he already knows.

Before Leia can part the curtain, he can already tell.

_I want to make amends._

**Author's Note:**

> [ _Do not go gentle into that good night._](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night)  
> [ _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._](https://www.poets.org/poetsorg/poem/do-not-go-gentle-good-night) \--Dylan Thomas
> 
> -[Code of the Sith](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Code_of_the_Sith)  
> -[Jedi Code](http://starwars.wikia.com/wiki/Jedi_Code)  
> -[Cassiopeia:](https://earthsky.org/astronomy-essentials/constellation-cassiopeia-the-queen-lady-of-the-chair-how-to-find-history-myth) the constellation, also known as Cassiopeia the Queen or Cassiopeia's Chair. Cassiopeia was a queen who boasted of her beauty and was punished for her vanity. She was turned to stone and cursed to the sky, doomed to circle the celestial pole forever. She sits upside down in her throne, still combing her hair, for all eternity.


End file.
